Climate Change Hysteria and Modern Day Chicken Littles

Since the early years of the 19th century, the story of Henny Penny, better known as “Chicken Little,” has a central phrase, “The sky is falling.”  The phrase is now applied to people who are unreasonably afraid, or those trying to incite unreasonable fear in others, i.e., fearmongering. These are people who predict calamity, especially if there’s no real evidence or justification for the claim. Does this phrase not easily describe those behind the climate change hysteria?

The phrase “Chicken Little” became very popular in the U.S, after Chandler published his illustrated children’s book in 1840. I’ve attached a photo of the book’s cover.

The climate crisis fanatics would certainly qualify to be modern-day “Chicken Littles.” By the way, none of their predictions of the end of the planet have come to pass, and the ELITE politicians who promote the Green Dream are often the greatest violaters of Green ethics, using private planes, etc. The climate change disciples who in their disruptive and destructive protests call for more administrative actions, certainly sound like the original Chicken Little. While willing to punish America and force Americans to change their lifestyews, they are unwilling to see how the changes they want will not save our planet, especially as long as the major world violators  (China, India, and probably many others)  of the increasingly weird climate change doctrine do not follow their guidelines.

The Chicken Littles of today have declared war against fossil fuels (they really don’t want you driving around), promoting the illogical electric cars (much more expensive than gas autos. See image below) who don’t realize who their idiot-ology  will ruin the farmers who feed America.

Of course, if one has no car one depends on for work, no real personal responsibilities, and PLENTY of money, the hardships caused by the Green Agenda are no big deal.

The Cajun Prairie Author Expo at LSU-Eunice, (July 23rd) featured over twenty Louisiana authors. It was at this event that I met Danny Singleton, the author (along with Virgil Breeden) of Sins of a Cajun Boy: The Legendary True Story of Louisiana’s Famous Cat Man. I obtained a signed copy. The book is a quick read, with forty-one chapters.  The book is a memoir, a descriptive account of a man’s life of crime,  and a remarkable tale of redemption.  Singleton was a skilled safecracker jewel thief, and cat burglar, whose criminal career tied him to the Dixie Mafia and to criminal organizations in Florida Alabama, Louisiana, and Texas and landed him in several prisons, including Angola, Parchman Farm.  He describes his restless life as a search for the dragon.  Larceny certainly ran in his blood.

He relates in his story the individuals and life events that shaped his criminal career and that eventually led him away from crime and to a positive life of faith and service. Though he experienced much suffering and setbacks in his life, his book ends positively without bitterness.  The book includes several newspaper articles relating to his crimes and court cases.

To order his book and to learn more about this fascinating man, his story, and his present Christian ministry, order his book HERE:

The Scots & Irish in Louisiana: In Story and Song

A presentation by Rickey Pittman about the influence, notable individuals, settlements, and achievements of the Scots & Irish in Louisiana. Presented July 9, 2022, in Alexandria, LA.

 THE IRISH

1. According to 2014 estimates from the U.S. Census Bureau’s American Community Survey. Louisiana has more than 351,000 people claiming Irish ancestry, about 7 percent of the state’s population.

The Irish (and the Scotts) left their mark on the state’s geography. Delhi, Kelley, Tullos, and Jena (formerly Hemp’s Creek) are all named for places in Ireland. Native American mound sites in the region have Irish or Scottish names. Galloway, Kilbourne, and Balmoral are just a few examples.

Hibernia Bank, once the largest local bank in Louisiana.  (The Ancient Order of Hibernians is the largest and oldest Irish Catholic organization in America.) Numerous Irish pubs can be found in greater New Orleans area.

3. WHY/HOW DID THEY COME TO LOUISIANA?

The potato famine 1820-47 (approx). Because of prejudice, many were turned away from northern ports. Charged $1.50 per person to board a ship and were required to bring a bed or casket. Ships came to England with cotton bales as cargo, so on the return voyage, they used them as ballast. Louisiana was Catholic friendly and anti-British. In 1860 census, close to 30% of NO residents were born in Ireland.

A landmark of Irish influence is the statue of Margaret Haughery on the corner of Prytania and Camp streets. Margaret Haughery was a destitute Irish immigrant who became a prominent businesswoman and philanthropist in the city. When she died in 1882, she was widely mourned. In commemoration of her good works, this statue of her comforting an orphan was erected soon after, said to be the first American statue honoring a woman.

The most iconic Irish cultural landmark is Patrick’s Church founded in 1833, this Gothic church is now a National Historic Landmark. Once a center of Irish immigrant life, Irish descendants are still in its congregation. With beautiful stained glass, wood plaster details, and vaulted ceilings, St. Patrick’s is one of the oldest buildings still standing in the Central Business District. Parishioners wanted to attend services in English, not French, Spanish or Latin. They wanted a place where God spoke English.

Completed in 1857, St. Alphonsus served as a Roman Catholic church for the Irish Catholic community of the Lower Garden District section of the city.

The Irish Canal: Hired to dig with pick and shovel the mosquito-infested ditch that would be the new 60-ft. wide 6.07 mile-long shipping canal to Pontchartrain. There was no dynamite, nothing but wheelbarrows with which they’d haul the sludge out of the ditch on inclined planks. And there was no way for them to drain the relentless seepage but with pumps. Over 8,000 died from disease and exhaustion, buried along the way in shallow graves or in mass graves at St. Patrick Cemetery No. 1. The builders of the city’s New Basin Canal expressed a preference for Irish over slave labor for the reason that a dead Irishman could be replaced in minutes at no cost, while a dead slave resulted in the loss of more than one thousand dollars. Irish workers made up half of the crews of riverboats and dock workers.

The Irish Channel – Named for the wave of Irish immigrants who settled there. My son lived there for a while. Here’s a good guide: https://www.neworleans.com/blog/post/irish-channel-neighborhood-guide/

The Irish Cultural Museum:  Programs, special speakers, musicians, historical displays.  On Conti Street. Coffee House. https://www.facebook.com/IrishCulturalMuseumOfNewOrleans/

Block Parties, St. Patrick’s Day Parade, Mardi Gras: Krewe of Erin, Krewe of St. Patrick

Irish Dancers: Many schools of Irish Dance in greater New Orleans area.

Irish Theatre and comedy: Drama has an interesting history in New Orleans. Camp Street Theatre, St. Philip Theatre, and St. Charles Theatre especially featured Irish plays: The Irish Tutor (7 seasons), Audiences saw plays about Irishmen in every possible profession or situation, such as: The Irish Ambassador, The Irish Valet, The Irish Heiress, and The Irish Widow; and in locations around the world: The Irishman in China, The Irishman in London, The Irishman in Naples. The Irish Ambassador and The Irish Lion. New Orleans theater-goers were a receptive and enthusiastic audience. Songs were regularly encored. Covered well by newspapers.

Famous actors: Barney Williams, John Collins, Tyrone Power, Master Joseph Burke,  Dion Boucicault and John Brougham, Richard B. Sheridan, Robert Emmet . Power had goal of keeping the audience in a roar of laughter with his jokes, brogue, blarney, and botheration whether he performed in plays he wrote or in those featuring songs and dances written expressly for him.

Irish eccentrics, stereotypes, blunders, farces, a comic dramatic work using buffoonery and horseplay,  bulls. An Irish bull is a ludicrous, incongruent or logically absurd statement, generally unrecognized as such by its author. Very similar to our Boudreaux and Thibodeaux. Family groups, The Young Irish Minstrels, (Professor MacEvoy and his 3 colleens) Raymond Family (an hour in Ireland) keep interest in Irish music going.

Catherine Hayes, “The Irish Skylark.” was a world-famous Irish soprano of the Victorian era. On February 21 the Irish militia companies, benevolent societies, and temperance organizations marched to the Armory Hall and attended her concert in a body.  Catherine Hayes earned four hundred dollars nightly for her concerts in February 1852.

THE SCOTS: There are 20 cities and parishes with Scottish names in Louisiana. Numerous businesses, schools, mascots (Scotties, a highland breed) streets named Cameron, Stewart

Scottish Free Masonry, lodges proudly proclaim their Scottish heritage.

Tartan Day (Minden) A festival and sometimes celebrated at Presbyterian churches. Tartan Day is a North American celebration of Scottish heritage on 6 April, the date on which the Declaration of Arbroath was signed in 1320.

Highland Cattle Association: Prices ranged from crossbred steers at $800 to a registered yearling Highland bull for $14,000, and a registered six-month-old Highland heifer sold for $12,500. Then for the unregistered an open 4 yr. old cow, sold for $9000. Prices were high also for cow/calf pairs selling for $6200. Coos (excellent lean meat for burgers) They have a Highland cattle auction! One can purchase meat online.

Pipes & Drums groups

Scottish Dances and dancers: https://www.rscds.org/learn/steps-techniques/simple-scottish-dances

Ceilidh Dancing

Scottish Society  (Caledonian Society in Baton Rouge) https://www.csbr.org

(Coterie) https://www.csbr.org/homepage/the-scottish-cultural-society-the-coterie/ a small group of people with shared interests or tastes, especially one that is exclusive of other people

Scottish Marshall Arts – “Broadsword society,

Robert Burns Birthday Jan 25. The main attraction of Burns Night is the Burns Supper. This traditionally involves participants donning tartan, listening to bagpipes, crooning Auld Lang Syne – also sung at New Year’s Eve – and reciting the great writer’s songs and poems.

St. Andrews Patron saint of Scotland (Nov. 30) St Andrew’s Day celebrates the very best of Scottish culture with lots of delicious food and drink, music and ceilidh dancing, with parties going into the wee small hours of the night.

Whiskey Tastings (whisky spelling) How to do a whisky tasting! https://www.whiskyadvocate.com/do-whisky-tasting/

Highland Games and festivals. There are many vendors with Scottish costumes, food, flags, and other items.

SCOTS-IRISH (Ulster-Scots: the rednecks of the Celtic World)

1. How they started: After the North of Ireland was de-peopled, Scots were imported in great numbers to resettle the land. They were largely protestant. (Thus Civil war between north and south) The peak periods of Scots-Irish immigration to America occurred between 1718-74     https://discoverulsterscots.com/emigration-influence/america/ulster-scots-america/scotch-irish-and-new-orleans

Known as a ‘God-fearing, Sabbath-keeping, covenant-adhering, liberty-loving and tyrant-hating race.’ This love of freedom is a regular theme in centuries of Scotch-Irish literature. Jackson Square is named for Andrew Jackson, whose parents were Scotch-Irish emigrants to America in the 1760s.

A good link on the Ulster Scotts. https://discoverulsterscots.com/emigration-influence/america/ulster-scots-america/scotch-irish-and-new-orleans. (Thomas Mellon)

Oliver Pollock, Ulster Scot, invented the dollar sign, one of the wealthiest merchants in America. Spent almost a billion supporting the Revolution.

Central and North Louisiana were settled by the Scots-Irish immigrants from Georgia, Alabama, South Carolina, Mississippi, and Tennessee. The majority of these immigrants were Baptist or Methodist. They were usually small farmers with a strong Protestant work ethic, and few of them owned enslaved Africans.

Feel free to share this information!  If you are near one of these Barnes & Nobles, stop by for a visit! I’d love to meet you in person!

Clean Nets

Ever since Indian Territory days, my family has fished this Red River. Mama always said there ain’t no call for us to be ashamed of it neither. She says the first apostles were fishermen, and that if fishermen are good enough for Jesus, then the rest of the world will just have to accept us too.

When they finished the Lake Texoma Dam in 1944, the Red River changed, and our family had to change with it. Now, most of our fishing time is spent on the lake. We also started guiding some, helping those tourists with more money than sense to catch sand bass or stripers, or get them to some ducks and geese in hunting season. They’re surprised we ain’t got no fish sonar or duck radar or fancy gear like that. We just know where the fish are and where the ducks like to go. Ain’t really much to it if a man pays attention.
The life of a fisherman ain’t as simple as it used to be. Now I gotta fool with getting all kinds of permits.

My daddy fishes with us some. He still cain’t read, so I have to read each year’s new rules to him. The state says we gotta count and measure fish, and throw back the game fish if they get tangled up in my nets or traps or get on my trotlines. I have to throw them back even if they’re gonna die. Seems like a waste of good fish. Sometimes I keep them anyway and take them over to Hendrix and give them away to the colored people there. I guess that’s okay, long as I don’t sell them. Sometimes I wonder what these state bureaucrats are thinking. If they’d just talk to a fisherman, they’d get lots of ideas. But I reckon they don’t care for talking to someone who knows how to do something they are passing laws for. No one used to pay us fishermen much mind. Now, we get more attention than I care to have from all kinds of folks, but mostly from rabbit rangers who seem set on catching us breaking some crazy law someone thought up.

Yet, I ain’t got it as bad as some. I read one story of some fellows that got put in the pen for importing half a dozen lobsters that were an inch or so too short. The paper said that government prosecutors worked on this case for six months. Seems like six months of detective work and lawyers would have cost a passel of tax dollars to prosecute
this lobtsergate conspiracy. I hope they don’t get so desperate to keep a job that they would pick on poor fishermen like myself.

We make most of our money off the catfish we sell, but I noticed it’s getting harder to sell them. People are getting attached to that pond-raised catfish, or lately, that catfish or tapia that comes frozen all the way from China. But they don’t taste the same as river fish. Anyone raised on river fish can tell you that.

But what a lot of folks don’t know is that we got all kinds of good fish here, not just catfish. There’s brim, largemouth bass, crappie, gar, drum, buffalo, carp, black bass, sand bass, stripers, hybrids (I reckon a hybrid happens when a sand bass gets to know a striper real well), and spoonbill catfish that we snag down by the dam when the rabbit rangers ain’t around. We eat’em all too.

But even though I spend a good bit of my fishing time on Lake Texhoma, and she works me near to death, I still love that damned old Red River. She’s toned down some since the dam was finished, but she’s still got a mind of her own. She don’t flood much no more, like she did when she devoured the town of Karma, north of Bonham where my grandma had a store. Grandma told me how she and my grandpa just watched the river warsh the whole town away. Weren’t nothin’ they could do bout it. And there ain’t nothin’ lives there now. Lady Red must not have liked that town much.

The river used to have a bunch of logjams, but they’re pretty much all gone now. Daddy said that in his day the logs were so thick you could walk across the river and never get your feet wet. The river’s still got quicksand, even though it ain’t as bad as it was. I don’t know where it went to, but only a few spots are bad to have it now. People who don’t know about quicksand or can’t spot it are in bad shape if they get caught in it alone. It must be horrible for someone to get drownded in mud, being sucked down to the river’s bottom. I only got in quicksand once. Daddy hauled me out and told me how the last person he pulled out of quicksand was a woman, and he had to reach down and pull her out by the hair. She was real dead, he said. And then after making me take a close look at the quicksand, he whipped my little ass with a willow switch real good so I’d remember not to come near it again. I learnt right then what quicksand looked like and I ain’t stepped into it since. A good thrashin’ always helps the memory.

When the water’s high enough, I load up the kids and their grandaddy on the johnboat or airboat, and take them downriver, explaining to them all they need to know ‘bout the river nowadays. When the water’s too low for a boat, I walk its banks on Sundays. Sunday is the only day I don’t fish; it’s the only day our family ever took off from work. I find stuff—old bottles, lots of trash that I guess came down from the dam, ‘cause I sure don’t see no people around to leave it there. Sometimes I think the river’s got a mind of her own and just puts things where she wants when she’s tired of playing with it.

Mama says the river used to be haunted. Gave people some kind of fever that made them start killing folks. Ever time some good ole boy goes on a killin’ rampage, Mama says that the fever’s come back to the Red River Valley. “If’n you ever see someone who don’t belong down there, you be real careful,” she says. “Look at their eyes. The ones with the fever got the same look as a wild dog that ain’t afraid of humans no more.”

“How do people get well from this fever, Mama?” I asked.

“Ain’t but one cure,” she said. “They got to be put down, just like they’s a rabid dog.”
I think that fever’s been around now and then because my family’s found several dead bodies on the river or in the lake through the years. Drownings mostly. Some of them could swim, but they underestimated the strength of the current and the temperamental nature of the river. Sometimes I think she just don’t care for people thrashing around in her and gets riled up and pulls them down. Some of the others I just don’t know how they got there cause they still got their shoes and fancy city clothes on. You can tell they didn’t fall off no boat.

My house ain’t far from the Carpenter’s Bluff Bridge. We see folks down there in summer swimming and diving off the bridge. They go there at night too and build fires and drink and all. I couldn’t sleep one night and I floated down river, sittin’ in the front of the boat just sculling along, and I saw a bunch of folks underneath the bridge. They was sitting in the light of a campfire and I heard them carrying on.

Sounded like they were having a big time. When she’s a mind to, the river knows how to make folks real happy and feel like they belong there. Only difference between these visiting folks and me is that I belong on the river all the time.

My wife Sophie and I had us a bunch of kids, and all of them know how to fish. The littlest ones we teach to get bait. They seine crawfish out of ponds and ditches, dig worms, seine minners out of the creek and sell them so they can have some spending money. But I only got one out of the bunch that’s taken to fishing enough that I know he’ll be a fisherman all his life. When he ain’t in school, he’s with me. Elvin’s a tough one—you can tell by his callused little hands. He doesn’t cry when he gets wet or cold. He don’t mind getting his face blistered by the wind or sun. He works right beside me until the fish are all cleaned and we get everything ready for the next day.

One day we was warshin’ and mending our nets and he says, “You must have the cleanest nets in the river, Daddy. Why you warsh them so much?”

“Dirty nets don’t catch no fish, boy.” Then I tell him what my daddy always told me. “When Jesus called them first apostles, they was warshing nets when he found them. So right away he called them to follow him, ‘cause he knew they were good fishermen. They kept fishing too, only from then on they fished for men. A man’s got to keep his nets clean in life, boy, if’n he wants anything in them but trash.”

We was on the river one afternoon and my boy was walking the sandbars and stepped into some quicksand. I hauled him out of it and whipped his little butt with a willow switch, just like my daddy done me. And I explained to him how the river, she don’t cotton to a man bein’ careless. He’s got to pay attention all the time. I told him how the river’s different now, and how she’ll be different when he’s growed up too. Maybe then she won’t have no quicksand at all, but she does now, and he cain’t go messin’ around in it.

I don’t know why my family likes fishing so. I guess we were just meant to do it. But I know when I feel that tug on my line, and I feel that life there, it feels real good. And when I can sell a pickup load of iced-down catfish to the grocers, and go back home with money, it
makes me feel good to buy my family things they need. Good fishing goes in spells, so I don’t always catch as much as I want. Sometimes the river pushes the fish away from us just to see if we love her enough to stick with her. She ain’t run us off yet. Hell, we ain’t goin’ nowhere.

This is a song I just wrote about my mother—a true story. It is a first draft, so pardon cadence and meter and other issues. I’m probably going to add a chorus to it.

“Two Girls in the Persimmon Tree”

Mitty Beth & Jessie Fae,
Were swinging from grapevines,
Pretending to be Tarzan & Jane,
Having a real good time.

Let’s go fishing, said Jessie Fae,
And a smile came on her face,
I heard the fishing’s good,
In the pool on the Parker place.

Jessie Fae & Mitty Beth,
Went fishing that fine day,
The crossed the fence at the Parker place,
Mitty Beth and Jessie Fae.

They walked into Parker’s pasture,
With bait and fishing poles,
Two country girls out for some summer fun,
To their favorite fishing hole.

The Parker cows had a bull,
They called him Billy the Kid,
Many had tried to ride him,
They tried, but never did.

Sometimes he serviced Parker cows,
When not in rodeos,
But both brought out the mean in him,
Why, I do not know.

Jessie Fae and Mitty Beth,
Saw the bull coming their way
He pawed the ground & lowered his head,
Making the girls afraid.

They climbed up in a persimmon tree,
To escape the angry bull,
They picked the tree’s sweet fruit,
And ate till they were full,

Have you ever eaten persimmons,
After first frost has come?
All the bitterness is gone,
There’s just sweetness on your tongue.

The girls sat until the sun went down,
But the bull, he wouldn’t leave,
He lay down to wait it out,
Till they left the tree.

Their mamas began to worry,
As the sun was setting low,
So they sent the Beechum boy,
As fast as he could go.

Beechum ran the bull away,
And the girls climbed down the tree,
‘They asked for a ride on his horse,
He said, “You’re kidding me!”

Go back home the way you came,
I’ve got better things to do.
Your mamas might tan your hides,
So I’d hurry if I were you!”

This is an essay I entered in a contest as a tribute to my father, Amos (Gene) Pittman

WHAT SATELLITE RADIO TAUGHT ME ABOUT MY FATHER

Country music is me; it’s what I’ve grown up with, and it’s what I do—Scotty McCreery

Two years ago, I was driving to South Texas for some gigs and as usual had Sirius Satellite Radio tuned to Willie’s Roadhouse on Sirius Satellite. I’ve always enjoyed the station, but today something felt different. Every song for over an hour, one after the other, was a song I had heard my daddy do.  Those songs caused me to remember and realize some things about my father and the music that filled his life, and because I was his son, filled mine.

            Amos Pittman was a Haskell County Texas dry-land farmer’s son. He and his two brothers and sister had been raised hard, working the fields of his father’s dry-land farm.

By the time he graduated from high school, two important things happened: First, he learned to play guitar. He was left-handed, but he learned to play guitar right-handed. Second, he was drafted into the Army in the last days of World War II.  He was proud of being a veteran his whole life. When he was discharged, while visiting an Army friend, he met my mother, Jessie Fae, and they fell in love immediately and soon married. He was twenty and Jessie Fae was only fourteen.  They tried their hand at farming, but the brutal weather of West Texas, financial struggles, the never-ending work, and family conflicts caused them to pack up their few belongings in their 1933 Ford and seek their fortune in Dallas.

Amos found work right away in Dallas as a city bus driver, then with fleet service for American Airlines, which he worked for until he retired. I was born when my mother was seventeen and I grew up immersed in country music. Wherever he went, Daddy always had the car radio on, and to this day I can still hear the voice of Bill Mack in my head. In our Dallas home, Saturday evening was a consistent ritual of country music shows—Porter Wagoner, Wilburn Brothers, Panther Hall, Ernest Tubb and their guests—music that lasted until the evening ended with our watching “wrasslin.”

My father took me to country music concerts in Dallas when we could afford to go.  I still recall seeing Charlie Pride and other country greats at Panther Hall and the Sportatorium. I also remember him describing the heart-wrenching songs of George Jones, whom he saw once at a small dive in Dallas. He said Jones’ music touched him deeply, even though Jones was so drunk that night Jones had to lie down on the stage to sing.

Daddy played every venue he could, mostly charity events, and taught me to play guitar. He bought my brother a set of drums and we became his little band. My first guitar was a Silvertone electric ordered from a Sears catalog. The strings were set high, but I played hard every day till my fingertips bled and the callouses and muscle memory of a guitar player were formed. Daddy taught me to play by ear and in any key, and soon I had the same gift he had of being able to hear a country song and play it immediately. I played that catalog guitar with its Black Diamond strings every day, while Daddy picked his Fender Broadcaster.  As I learned to play fairly well, I’ve often thought he developed a country music version of the Suzuki method of music instruction.

Today as I sing along with the satellite radio songs, I realize how my Daddy must have had an amazing memory for song lyrics. I can’t explain why I can sing along with a song I hadn’t heard in twenty or more years, other than the fact I must have been so immersed in music as a child. Until his last years, I never saw Daddy sing from a notebook, though I know he must have at times. He knew virtually every song of Hank Williams, Jim Reeves and the other early country singers word-perfect. I started making a list of songs Daddy knew by memory and I stopped counting at 300. As a teen I moved into rock music, but as an adult I moved back to my roots in country music and was surprised to find that I too still had so many of those old songs memorized. Those old country songs hardwired in my memory make up most of the shows I do today.

When the new “pop” sounding country music came along, Daddy stuck with the classics, only occasionally adding a new ballad to his list.  He encouraged me to write songs and said he hoped that someday I would make a record.

Daddy died in 2011.  I inherited his guitars. The last song I heard him do was “Seven Spanish Angels,” at an Opry in Hendrix, Oklahoma, a year before the strokes and dementia robbed him of the gift of song and speech. I’ve made six CDs now, but my daddy never got to hear any of them.

Now, when I’m performing, dressed in cowboy hat and boots just like he usually wore, I always mention my father somewhere in the show.  I wish we could once again sing and play together on stage.  I wish I had paid more attention to him, learned more from him. Whenever I visited my mother and I’d strum on his guitar, she would often say, “Your daddy loved that song.”

Yes, it was Willie’s Roadhouse on Sirius XM that helped me reflect on my Daddy and the music he knew and loved.  Those were the songs that saturated my boyhood and that touched my memories and formed my heart and soul. Music that I still love.  Music that will always be with me and that the crowds I play to will also always hear.

Daddy lived in the age when AM radio, Saturday night country music TV shows and the 45 RPM records he could afford to buy were his teachers. I wish he could have experienced Satellite Radio and Willie’s Roadhouse. Every time I listen to that old music, in my mind, I can hear the twang of that Fender Broadcaster and my father singing those songs. The country music of satellite radio keeps the memory of my father alive in my heart.

Romance on the Tamiami Trail: A short story by Rickey Pittman

   I had seen dynamite used in the movies and read about it in books, but the first time I actually saw dynamite in use was in Naples, Florida. I pulled my car over to watch the road construction men on Highway 30 as they followed a traveling dynamite drilling machine.  They would drop the lit stick of dynamite into a hole, drag the blasting map over the hole. The explosion wasn’t very loud, but it was effective in breaking up the limestone rock so the limestone can be used for a base for the road. I found this fascinating. I knew that over two million sticks of dynamite had been used building the Tamiami Trail. Three million had been used in Collier County to create the canals next to the highways. Much of the finances required for this infrastructure came about as a result of the ambition, determination, and resources of Barron Collier, a man blessed with a plethora of resources.

            I’ve always enjoyed South Florida—I would live there again if I could. I had only returned to see if I could convince my ex-girlfriend Tessa, to give our relationship another go. I loved this girl fiercely, with her porcelain skin and long black hair that in the sunlight shone like a halo. I had left South Florida and moved to Orlando, an area where a working musician can still make a living. I stopped at the Decadent Dessert Bar on Highway 30A, where Tessa was to meet me. I had performed here many times in the past.
The manager remembered me and asked if I could play for her lunch crowd.  I said, “Sure,” and I sat down with a cup of coffee and began to softly plunk on my guitar, searching for the right melody to fit my mood. I finally settle on a song about a man who compared his girl to an Everglades orchid. I sat at a table where I could see into the parking lot, and I saw her step out of her Corvette. Tall, slim and graceful, I felt something in my gut, and choked a bit on the words of the song I was singing.  She was dressed in flip-flops, denim shorts, and a flowery blouse. I had loved Tessa, and at this moment I realized I still loved her. I felt like I was a moth attracted to a candle (her), in danger of getting too close to what could destroy me. As she entered the cafe, I ended the song a verse early, set my Taylor guitar on its stand, and stood up. Tessa saw me and smiled, then hugged me.  We both sat down at my table.
“Sean, you came back.”
I thought this was stating the obvious. When we broke up, in anger I said I’d never come back to Collier County. Yet, here I was.  “Yes, I’m back. Thank you for coming to meet me.”  I ordered our coffees—a frozen mocha frappé for her,           a double espresso for myself.
“How is your work in Orlando?”
“It’s good. Gigs nearly every night. Pay is good. Better than here.”
“Why did you come back, Sean?”
“I wanted to see you. That’s all.”
“Why?”
I didn’t answer right away. I suddenly felt that nothing I could say would come out right. She looked at me and raised one eyebrow, indicating she expected an answer.  “Tessa, I’m not really sure what happened between us. After I left, I realized how much I missed you, needed you. I was hoping we could try again.”
Then she said something that any man who wants the love of his life back doesn’t want to hear.
“I’m seeing someone else now, Sean. He’s a good man and I care for him greatly. He’s an architect. And yes, we are living together.”
“So what happened between us, Tessa?”
“You blew up what we had. You were never around me. You stayed out late with your music gigs, slept late, you drank too much, and when I did go with you for your music, it was horrible. Do you know what it feels like to drive an hour or more to where you’re playing, watch you set up your sound system, sit alone and listen to you for three hours, then watch you pack your stuff, and then have to face a long drive home. Not exactly what you’d call a fun girl’s night out.”
She had a point.
She continued. “Besides, I don’t think it would work if we did get back together. I could give up my present boyfriend, but you’re not going to give up your music. I do believe you love me, and I still care for you deeply, but the road between us has been torn up. We’ve hurt each other too badly to travel down that messy path again. You would just blow it all up again. And now, I need to go, Sean.”
I asked a server to take our picture with my cell phone. We stood with our arms around each other. It was a feeling I remembered.  I figured the photo would give me something to ponder—or cry over.
I watched her leave and drive away, just as I heard the road crew set off another stick of dynamite.

Orphanage Road by Rickey Pittman

            Highway 77 runs from Corpus Christi to Brownsville, Texas. The road is surrounded by a rich history and legends, and many ghosts. As one enters Willacy County, he or she will pass Orphanage Road. As I knew of no orphanage in operation in the area, I decided to investigate and see how the road obtained its name.

My research revealed that shortly after World War I, Willacy County had assigned fifty black orphans of the Rio Grande Valley to the care of a couple running an orphanage. My research revealed that the orphans must have had a sad life. Ever since the years after the War Between the States, the black families in the Rio Grande Valley were ostracized socially. They lived in isolation, sometimes in fear, but always striving to live unnoticed by the whites and Hispanics who ran the Valley.  World War I took many of the black fathers of the Valley.  Spanish Flu killed the remaining mothers and the surviving children were collected by Willacy County and sent to the Black Orphanage. Though the children were cared for, the routine of life was difficult for the orphans. Their life there was a one room schoolhouse approach to learning, endless chores, and strict discipline.

            Then there was the terrible fire that killed forty-nine of the orphans.

I finally found a survivor of that fire–Hattie.  She agreed to meet me at the site of the orphanage.  Under a black ebony tree, I studied the ruins of the burned-down dormitory that had once been a home for her and for forty-nine others.  Beyond that was a cornfield and one large live oak in the center of the field. Hattie’s caretaker drove her from Raymondville to meet me. Hattie was old now, nearly eighty years old but with the help of her crutch was still mobile.

After we made proper introductions, Hattie said, “So, you want to know about our orphanage. I’ll tell you more than you want to know. Maybe more than you should know.”

What follows is the story she told me.

*           *           *

“After the fire, I first thought Celia survived.  We were best friends. From time to time we would sneak out from their dormitory at night to walk and play in the woods or the cornfield behind the orphanage. Celia always seemed nervous in the cornfield. ‘There’s a Devil’s Tree there,’ she said. ‘With a door. If you ever go near that tree, don’t open that door.’

“‘Trees ain’t got doors, I told her.

‘Some trees do have doors. And once you go in, it’s mighty hard to get out. The Devil’s Tree won’t let you go.’

“One night Celia told me at supper we wouldn’t be able to sneak out because she was going to run away from the orphanage.

“ ’Is that why you is dressed up, Celia’? I said. Celia was all gussied up in a blue calico dress with a red bow in her hair. Nows that I think about it, that was the last time I remember seeing her.

“I thought Celia was kidding about running off and dozed off that night, but later I awoke when she heard something. It sounded just like a window opening.  There was just enough moonlight for me to see the open window behind Celia’s bed and the bed was empty too. I went to that window and called out, ‘Celia? Celia, where are you?’

“I slipped out the window and into the cornfield behind the orphanage. I could hear the rustling cornstalks as Celia moving through the field ahead me. The cornstalks behind her snapped in the cold evening breeze.  I ran faster to try to catch up. I found myself in front of that oak tree you can still see from the road. The wind was blowing real hard and swirling around my bare feet.  Then, I lost her bearings and didn’t know where I was.  I wanted to find Celia, but when I heard hourly bell of the orphanage I thought about returning. I eased on up to that gray-barked oak tree with endless arms and fingers. It’s Celia’s Devil Tree, I thought.

“I could see Celia’s name carved on the tree. I touched it and the bark felt warm.  And, as I stared at it, the tree seemed to open and I passed out.

“I woke near dawn, and for a moment I still couldn’t remember where I was.  Crazy houghts rushed into my mind, one after the other.  Then it came back to me: Celia had run away and I had followed her into the cornfield and to the Devil’s Tree.  I decided I better get myself back to the orphanage.

“When I stood up, I saw black smoke rising from the direction of the orphanage. I ran as fast as I could back to the orphanage, only to find it all burned up.. Mr. and Mrs. Smith, the orphanage director and his wife, were talking to the Sheriff and so I ran up to them.  The director’s wife said, “There’s Hattie! At least one made it out alive! Hattie, oh Hattie . . .”

“I asked them what happened.”

            ‘A fire, Hattie,’ the director said. ‘All the other orphans were lost.’

“No, not all,” I said. “I followed Celia out the open window. She was running away and I wanted to bring her back. ”

“The director shook his head and he said. ‘Hattie, we found Celia. She died with the others.’

I set down my pen. “I’m so sorry, Hattie.”

Hattie said, “They dug her a grave with the other orphans, but I don’t think she’s gone. Deep down I think she’s still with us and always will be in some way.”

 “I hope so, Hattie.”

In the weeks following, I interviewed as many as I could, but no one knew how the fire started, only that forty-nine orphans died. There’s not much written about the orphanage either—no court records, no diaries, no letters. One night I was driving into Harlingen and passed Orphanage Road. I went to the next exit and turned around.  Something bothered me and I felt no peace. I turned onto Orphanage Road from 77 and as I drew near to the site of the orphanage, I passed a little black girl on the side of the road, waving to me. She wore a blue calico dress and had a red bow in her hair. I hit the brakes and turned the car around, but found no little black girl. Only a thick mist that faded out into the cornfield. I  pointed my car’s headlights into the cornfield and could just barely see the twisted, gnarled limbs of an oak in the distance.

I’ve driven down Orphanage Road several nights since then. And every time, I’ve passed the same little girl on the side of the road, but she’s never there when I turn around.

Rickey Pittman, Bard of the South